Momentary Thing
by In Walked Luck
Summary: All's fair in love and war, baby, and she's a little bit of both.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Outsiders_ by S.E. Hinton.

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She tasted like Sweet Tarts and lies. Lies she tells her parents, lies she tells her friends, and lies she tells you. But you don't mind. In fact, you kind of like it. Her lying to everyone just makes things more exciting, even when the lying is to you. It's not as if you don't lie right back. Lies you tell your friends, lies you tell your girl, and lies you tell her.

All's fair in love and war, baby, and she's a little bit of both.

xxxxx

It's the afternoon of Dally's funeral that she finds you. It's cold and wet and miserable outside - exactly the weather it should be for a funeral - but you couldn't stand to stay home. You're at the bowling alley, taking out your anger on the pinball machine and wondering why you're wasting your time doing something so trivial when you could be getting trashed. Or laid. Or, hey, maybe even both. Kathy probably feels sorry enough for you to down a few beers with you before putting out.

But then _she_ turns up. And her hair is all shiny and straight, and she's all tiny and thin, and it's a stark contrast to Kathy, who's blonde with messy curls, short and curvy everywhere you like. But you like this, too. Or maybe you just like the look she gives you, the way her eyes light up in such a refreshing way, the way she bites her bottom lip the moment she sets her sights on you.

And set her sights she does. It doesn't take more than a few minutes of casual chatting before she suggests going for a ride in your car. Your car might be a piece of shit, but hell if you're going to say no to this.

You end up in an empty parking lot of a closed down store at dusk, and it takes less than five minutes of kissing for her to undo your jeans.

xxxxx

She likes you because your dangerous. Or so she thinks. You go along with it, letting her think you could get her into all kinds of dangerous shit when, in reality, the only kind of trouble you worry about getting her into is the maternal kind. You're always careful - have been finicky about it since that whole mess with Sandy and not so much Soda - but you can never be too careful with a girl like her.

But shit, you grease your hair back, you steal anything that isn't nailed down, and you carry a blade - of course she thinks your dangerous. And that's why she likes you, because you're dangerous, tough, and a little rough. She likes that you're someone she should stay away from.

Her parents would kill her, her friends would reject her, but you're not sure she gives a damn about any of that. In fact, if this was more - more serious, less fun; more feeling with the heart, less feeling with the hands - she might just tell everyone the truth, honest laughter in her voice when she says that's that, nothing they say will change her mind, and they had better learn to do the right thing and be happy for her.

But it's not serious and she likes the secrecy too much to give it up.

And you … well, you like her hair. The colour, the length, the mind-blowing softness to it. There's no full can of hairspray in there to make it big, no dark roots giving away a bottled secret, no fucking mess whatsoever. It's short and cute and dark, and just how much you like the colour surprises you.

xxxxx

"What's your real name?" Her words are barely there, just a breath in your ear, hitching on the last word when your thumb dips into the waistband of her skirt.

"You know my name."

It takes her a few minutes to get out a reply, and in those few minutes you suck hard at the pulse point in her neck, finish unbuttoning her blouse, and begin on the zipper of her skirt. You can multitask with the best of them, even if her anxious, desperate whimpers are distracting the hell out of you.

You begin to lave at the soon-to-be-mark on her neck, and she slowly gets her breath back enough to ask again.

"But what's your _real_ name?" Her nails scratch at your scalp, and you think you might tell her every filthy little secret you have just so long as she does that again.

You mumble something incoherent against her neck, something you're not even sure is English.

"Please tell me."

Nails. On your scalp. Scraping in the most heart-racing way. "Keith," you gasp out. "My name is Keith."

xxxxx

She asks you about Kathy one night, and you don't know what to say. She seems genuinely interested, though, so you tell her Kathy's your girl.

"Huh." She licks her lips, a small crease forming between her eyebrows as she frowns. "If she's your girl then why do you do this with me?"

"You complainin'?"

"No, just curious. I'm sure she can't appreciate this."

You raise an eyebrow. "You don't think she actually know about this, do you?"

She laughs her tinkly laugh. "Of course not. But _I'm_ not bothered by her because I know this isn't the real deal, just like those other girls I often see you out with. But Kathy … well, if she's your girl then she probably expects a certain something from you."

"Oh yeah, like what?"

"Faithfulness."

You snort. "Yeah, 'cause I never see Kathy out with any other guy when she ain't out with me."

"Maybe it's because you go out with other girls that she goes out with other guys."

"I don't get it," you say, cocking an eyebrow at her. "Are you tryin' to get me to stay … _faithful_ to my girlfriend? Because you know that means this'll have to end, right?"

She shrugs one shoulder. "I'm just saying, a girl has certain expectations of her boyfriend."

There's a look in her eyes when she says this, and you wonder if she's talking about you and Kathy, or her and the boyfriend who ditched her.

xxxxx

At school she doesn't even look at you, but you can't say you expected any different. She's rich and well put together and better than you. And you're a no-good hood. Your words, not hers. She doesn't think she's any better than you - she tells you this and, for some odd reason, you actually believe her - but at school, she sure acts it.

She stands next to that damn redhead you've really come to resent, not paying an ounce of attention to you, acting like you're not even a blip on her radar, pretending as though she doesn't spend hours in your car with her skirt bunched around her waist.

Not that you can blame her. While she studies in the library, you and Steve are spitting spit balls at the table next to her, full of Soc boys too young and scared to do anything about it. While she presents her essay on the Korean War during the junior class assembly, you sit in the back and clean your nails with your blade. While she chats to her friends in the hall about the beer blast the weekend before, you whisper filthy things into Kathy's ear about what you did to her over the weekend.

She is better than you, but you stopped letting it bother you months ago.

xxxxx

"Maybe we should run away together."

You've just told her about your latest fight with Kathy - the worst one yet - and you're actually tempted to take her up on her not-at-all serious offer. Partly because you want to get away, partly just to see what she would say.

"Oh yeah? Where we gonna go?"

She purses her lips a moment. "Anywhere. California? New York? Canada?"

"Canada?" You wonder if that's where he ex is.

"Sure, why not?"

You decide to play along because … well, why the hell not? "Nah, not Canada. Let's go with California. I'm partial to the warm weather, and I ain't ever seen the ocean before, you know?"

She stares at you, shocked. "You're kidding, right?"

You can't understand why she's so surprised. You're not at all surprised that she clearly _has_ seen the ocean - hell, you wouldn't be surprised if she had seen a whole other ocean and not just the one you're talking about. Atlantic, Indian, Artic, Southern … probably all of the above. Cocking an eyebrow at her, you figure it's time to make her realise just what different lives you lead.

"Nope. In fact I've only ever been outta the state once."

"Just once?" Her lips tilt up in a not-quite-smile, as if she doesn't really believe you, and it's the first time you've ever been bothered by the difference in your bank accounts.

"Yep."

"Well then," she says, catching on quickly to your souring mood, "the choice is yours. California it is."

"And you'll wear a bikini, right?" You smirk, making the joke and feeling suddenly thankful that there's no chance of the two of you ever running away together.

xxxxx

"You never called."

She doesn't even sound angry when she says it, just casual and inviting. She wants you to tell her why, to explain yourself and make it okay. You look at her, at the expression on her face, and wonder how to go about answering. There's no good response - and you think she might already know this - but you figure you ought to make some kind of an effort. Get out some kind of explanation.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Whether she deserves it or not, there really is nothing you can say to explain why you didn't call her. You can't tell her you didn't think twice about her number until you saw her in the bowling alley after Dal's funeral. It doesn't seem right to mention that, with everything else that went on that night, calling probably wouldn't have been the best idea. You especially don't want her to know that you threw her number away not all that long after she gave it to you.

So you raise an eyebrow, grin at her, and make a joke. "Imagine if I had- we'd probably be on our way to prom king and queen."

She smiles. "Well, you would look rather dapper in a crown."

xxxxx

You don't know why you do this with her. You've got a great girl - with other great girls any time you and Kathy are on the outs - who puts out frequently. You don't need to do this. When all she gives you is what you can get from almost any other girl on your side of town, you don't _need_ to do this.

But you like her well enough. She's a good girl, nice and smart with a damn good sense of humour. She's got killer legs, beautifully silky hair, and you really like the way her voice gets all raspy after spending an hour or two kissing her. Her nails do this thing on your skull where they scrape every so lightly, sending shivers down your spine, and the skin on her neck you're so fond of is particularly soft …

But that's it. You don't feel any more for her than you do Kathy or the other blonde you took out last weekend or. Hell, even your English teacher.

And the only thing that stops you from feeling guilty about doing all these things with such a nice girl from the other side of town is the distant look she sometimes gets. Because you know then that it's not you she's thinking of.

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**A/N:** Reviews would be wonderful :)


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